


Blood On His Sleeve

by rvdhoodlum



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Bat Family, Cutting, Depression, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Self-Harm, Suicidal Thoughts, they're all good brothers even if they pretend not to be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-20
Updated: 2017-08-20
Packaged: 2018-12-16 00:20:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,991
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11817267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rvdhoodlum/pseuds/rvdhoodlum
Summary: There are few things that Tim Drake hates more that being performative at a socialite party, so with that thought in mind, it’s not hard to see how he ended up bleeding, stranded in an alleyway at 3 am in the pouring rain.





	Blood On His Sleeve

There are few things that Tim Drake hates more that being performative at a socialite party, so with that thought in mind, it’s not hard to see how he ended up bleeding, stranded in an alleyway at 3 am in the pouring rain. The dread that comes with the anticipation of forced interaction is enough to drive even a vigilante to distraction, to put it mildly.

He didn’t quite _mean_ to end up here, like this. It was an ordinary night, and Tim was absentmindedly wrapping up his route. So what if he maybe strayed off his usual path a few blocks? He wasn’t looking for trouble.

And anyway, it was only five guys. And five-on-one when the one is a civilian is never a fair fight. There was no way that he _wouldn't_ have jumped into the fray; saving people from being mugged is definitely part of the job.

Tim was just tired, was all. The first one broke his leg and became little threat; the second fled only seconds into the fight; the remaining three didn’t have anything other than knives, no guns. A piece of cake.

More like a face full of mud, actually. But he got through it, didn’t he? Three criminals hogtied to a pole (another one had run away) and one man's money (and probably his life) saved. Not a bad way to end the night.

It was a little worse that he only made it over a few buildings before collapsing in an alley, bleeding profusely from various locations on his arms, legs, and stomach. It was only a few slice wounds, though, and one stab. Tim had had worse nights than that.

Tim laid in the alley for almost a half an hour, surprisingly relaxed. He could have moved, he supposed, but it was so much effort this early in the morning, and he’d been through worse. He probably deserved it, anyway, for not being good enough to easily win what should have been an unchallenging squabble. Tim’d had it worse. He could lie in an alley for a while and it was no big deal.

Which is exactly what he told Dick when the big blue bird had come to pick him up. Tim was mildly shocked that someone had thought to look for him. Of course, bother (and, he supposed, brother), that he was, Dick didn’t see it that way. Tim got him to leave him alone after just fifteen minutes of resisting his countless offers to help. He stitched up his wounds alone and rubbed his skin raw until it could have been stained deeply with blood like an old shirt and he wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference.

***

There are few things that Tim Drake hates more that being performative at a socialite party, but being forced to be at said party because he was benched was undeniably worse.

“If it isn’t the young prodigy Mister Drake! Good to see you.” The man offered his hand to Tim. He was incredibly short, and had the appearance of a koala bear whose outlook on life had taken some hard hits.

“Thank you, sir,” said Tim, shaking the hand of the man, who he had never seen before in his life, and looking for an exit. Please, let there be an exit.

Tim got the man to let go of his hand after what _had_ to be too much shaking when he felt a tug on his sleeve and a malicious presence enter his space.

“I’m sorry to leave you, sir,” god, what the heck was this guys name? Had they ever met? The man thought that they had. Hopefully he just thought Tim was being very polite. “But I believe my brother needs to talk to me in private.”

“Of course! I look forward to discussing your future in Wayne Enterprises very soon.”

Tim gave a half smile and pivoted away, doing everything in his power to not run from the room. He couldn’t believe he had Damian to thank for that save.

“Seriously, Drake. Cain Hoverman? I thought you had better taste than that,” Damian said as he sped walked across the room, not sparing Tim a glance.

“I had, and still have, no idea who the hell that is,” said Tim, picking up the pace. For a guy with such short legs, Damian could _move_. “And tugging on my sleeve? That isn’t too elementary for you?”

“I had to get your attention somehow, as you were too warped in your _fascinating_ conversation with that despicable thing to heed your surroundings.”

“Whatever you say, kiddo. Isn’t it past your bedtime?”

This time Damian bothered to turn his head around and give Tim a withering glare, before turning back just as quickly and exiting the social space. He did _not_ hold the door open for Tim. Really, Tim didn’t blame him. He was antagonizing Damian on purpose, but Damian had started it, and messing with him was the only enjoyment Tim had a chance of getting tonight.

“Hi,” Tim greeted Bruce, who nodded in return. The door slammed shut behind him, echoing in the space. Every room in this mansion was too big, in Tim’s opinion. Nothing should feel this empty, especially with three people filling the space.

“I trust the masses aren’t too devastated that I have yet to show myself?” Bruce said.

“I’d say you’re fine,” said Tim.

“What did you need us in here for?”

“Besides reminding you two to at least _pretend_ to like each other,” Bruce gave a scathing look to both his children, as if he had heard their brief conversation before and knew that they had already broken that rule. “I wanted to make sure you were briefed on the changes in Wayne Enterprises I will be announcing tonight.”

“Of course, Father,” said Damian, followed by an, “I know them cover to cover,” from Tim.

At this, Bruce seemed slightly less on edge. “Good.” 

Tim felt a brief sense of relief. He would have to go back out again, but at least most of the rest of the night was scripted.

“God, Drake, is that blood on your sleeve? You couldn’t even bandage your wounds correctly.” _Aaand_ now the illusion of peace was ruined, in a record breaking two seconds. “Don’t think I don’t know what Grayson had to do last night.”

“Oh, fuck off, Demon Brat,” Tim said.

This earned both Damian and Tim a _tetch_ noise and a half-power batglare from Bruce. Tim wanted to say more, but Bruce was already too pissed off before a party that no doubt would make him grumpier. He bottled his stewing anger; there would be other ways to release it.

Bruce glanced at his watch. “I should be making an appearance. Showing up too late to your own party isn’t fashionable.” The oak door could not silence the sounds of the still-young party beyond it, and they all knew that, unfortunately, he was right. “Go stitch yourself up,” he added towards Tim.

Damian gave a half smirk in Tim’s direction, earning him a hard jab in the ribs and both of them another batglare, this time kicked up to three-fourths full of pissed-off-ness. What a _great_ night, indeed.

“I expect _both_ of you to be on your best behavior.” Bruce looked down on his sons, who both gave him the same exasperated face, though if anyone were to tell them how similar they looked they wouldn’t be walking away without a bloody nose. “Tim, don’t take too long. I know none of us like this, but we all need to show ourselves in public for some amount of time, _civilly_.”

Tim showed him a half-hearted thumbs up, which was enough for Bruce. Tim walked back into the depths of the mansion to the entrance of the cave and didn’t look back. He didn’t need to see Bruce push open the door dramatically, arms outstretched and personality immediately indiscernible. There were enough false things in his life that he didn’t need a reminder of how much of that list Bruce helped to fill.

He made his way down to the cave, taking full paranoid precautions seeing as there was a party in the house and some snooping reporter could be around any corner. When Tim got there, his whole body didn’t exactly relax, but the tension shifted from impeccable posture to dejected-yet-ready-to-be-alert slouch.

He went to one of the various first aid kits and opened it, digging around for what he was looking for. Metal hit metal and echoed somberly in the empty space. Everything here was so empty. Even this damn cave, which took over their lives, was filled with trophies and gadgets and sorrow yet was still almost entirely vacant.

Tim pulled out a scalpel, gauze bandages, and medical tape, but didn’t get to work quite yet. He stood up, went into a back room, grabbed a spare white shirt, and did a quick sweep around the cave before returning. He sat down on the stool next to the table with the medical supplies but again seemed unsatisfied. Tim got up and checked for the third time that the security of the cave was not compromised. It hadn’t changed from the last two times, like he knew it wouldn’t have, but he had to be sure.

Satisfied, or at least as satisfied as he was going to get, Tim took off his suit jacket and button down, leaving just an undershirt. If one was astute enough to study his body quickly, they would have seen many years worth of scar tissue blanketing every available surface, and that was just his arms. The spaces that hadn’t been burned or stabbed or shot were lined meticulously with rows upon rows of thin scars, all very close to one another. Even though no one was there, to the best of his knowledge, Tim changed quickly into the new shirt. He made sure to roll up the sleeves without touching the blood this time.

Tim reached for the medical supplies, but didn’t go for the bandages; he reached for the scalpel. He held it against his skin for a moment,  eyes closed, sucking in his breath. The hesitation didn’t last long. Tim sliced his arm parallel to his wrist and didn’t even blink. He made a second cut, a third, showing no signs of slowing.

“Drake.”

_Cling_

“Bat-Brat,” Tim said, grabbing the gauze and wrapping it around his wrist almost haphazardly.

Damian jumped down from a dark ledge in the cave he must have been lurking in and walked purposely towards Tim. He bent down and picked up the scalpel, eyes never leaving Tim’s face. “What are you doing?”

“What do you think, genius? Bandaging my arm.”

“Why did you need a knife to bandage your arm?” No response. “Drake. Look at me.” Tim adamantly refused to look at him, turning his head further away so that Damian couldn’t even see the side of his face.

“I was trying to dig shrapnel out of my arm and I didn’t want Bruce to worry.” He slammed the gauze down on the table and focused on tying it roughly around his arm. “It’s none of your business.”

Tim looked Damian in the eyes unflinchingly, as though anticipating an attack and stealing himself against it, but Damian didn’t say anything, didn’t even move. Not giving him a chance to rethink, Tim stormed out towards the garage (a normal one, not the Bat mega-weapon one). He needed to feel something tonight that wouldn’t drive him insane, and a socialite party wasn’t that.

He hopped on a blue motorcycle - probably Dick's, who adamantly stuck to the Nightwing brand, but he'd return it - fished the keys out from a pocket in the seat cushion, and drove away. The wind blew his hair hazardously across his line of vision, a lesser danger that comes with not wearing a helmet, but he didn't care, just sped up slightly to get as far away from the manor as possible. Tim's eyes stung and he was vaguely aware that tears were forcing themselves out. He could have laughed if he were in any mood; it was sad, really, how depressed he was, and yet the only way he seemed to be able to cry was when it was physically impossible for him not to.

Tim wasn’t sure where he was going - anywhere seemed good because everywhere was bad, so what was the difference? - but he ended up at the docks, dangling his legs off the end of an abandoned pier. There was no boat traffic near him tonight, no drug dealers or smuggling rings to be stopped (by his intel), just him and the sea.

He stared into it like a question. It was a different place at night; dark, and offering no answers. He asked anyway. The water gave him the smell of salt and garbage and dreams; the wind wreathed itself in and out his hair and whispered messages from the bottles that never found land. The waves lapping at the wood sounded louder than anything else in the entire wretched city, like the sea itself was speaking to Tim, and crying with him.

Tim wasn’t even aware that he was tipping forward to meet the water until a hand on his shoulder pulled him back.

“It’s not worth it.” Tim smelled leather and gunpowder, and heard gravel. Huh. Not who he was expecting.

“Hi, Jason.”

“Hi yourself. Can I sit?”

Tim hesitated. Before he wanted to rip Damian’s head off, even though it really wasn’t just him, and he had just wanted to _hurt_. Now here was Jason, practically offering himself as a target in Tim’s eyes. He had wanted a fight; Jason had disturbed his peace, so he could be justified.

“It’s a free country.” Tim was too tired for all of this. The anger hadn’t quite subsided, but it had morphed, and hurting Jason now would only make him hurt himself later. Tonight already had too many regrets.

Jason sat cross legged next to him, body facing the sea but head turned toward Tim. He let them sit silently for a long while, but eventually broke into the one-sided conversation between the water and Tim. “Do you want to talk?”

“How’d you find me?” Tim countered.

“Dick called. He’s was so fucking scattered and panicked I could barely understand him, but he was saying Damian told him you were cutting yourself and just took off in the middle of Bruce’s big important party. He would have come down here himself, and I bet you he’s probably on the way, but he went back to Blüdhaven yesterday and it’s a bit of a trip.”

Tim felt something turn inside out in his stomach. His chest seized and he leaned forward. Jason leaned towards him, prepared to catch him if he was going to let himself fall, but Tim just sat like that, rocking back at forth slightly.

“That still doesn’t explain how _you_ found me,” he said, his head still in his lap, the words a disguised plea to change the subject.

“It wasn’t too hard,” said Jason. “I just went where I go when I need a place to feel nothing at all.”

Tim lifted his head out of his lap and looked at Jason. His back was hunched in defeat. “It’s over. It’s all over.”

He didn’t specify _what_ exactly was over, but Jason knew. “It’s not over.”

“It is. It’s all over. And I-I really don’t know why I don’t end it. Right now.” Tim’s voice quivered, which wasn’t a surprise considering his whole body trembled unless he forcibly steadied it.

“Because it isn’t over. And it’s not worth it. Trust me.” Jason took a deep breath, and Tim looked over, eyes opening slightly in interest. It sounded like Jason was going to say something very personal, a thing he did infrequently, and least of all with Tim, or really any member of the Bat-Clan.

“Being dead was the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. Not even dying - being dead. I have nightmares about waking up and not being able to breathe. I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.

“And there were times - I won’t pretend that there weren’t - there _were_ times when I thought I was better off dead. That I wanted to be dead again. But the thought of facing that pain again was so _horrifying_ that even living in _this_ fucking place was better than that.

“It’s not going to be easy, Tim, but trust me, staying here for as long as you can is better. Especially because you know with this fucking family we’re all eventually going to become zombies, so don’t you think for a second that if you die someone won’t drag your ass back and it’ll be a million times worse.”

They sat in silence again, both preferring to let the waves do all the talking from here on out.

“Thanks,” Tim managed eventually. There really wasn’t much more left to say.

He stood up and walked back to the motorcycle. He had disguised his entire demeanor again even though there was no one watching, but all the acting in the world couldn’t mask the fact that he was desperately scrambling to fix something newly broken.

Jason stood up too, but waited to follow suit and go after Tim (like he knew he had to) to spare a moment with the sea. The space where Tim had sat was completely empty, no different than if he had never been there at all. The waves pushed and pulled indifferently at the dock, back and forth, persistently attempting to fill a space that would nevertheless be emptied in the next seconds, and Tim drove off, heading for nowhere, hoping there would be a place for the hollow shell inside of him so that he could make room for something other than empty pain.

**Author's Note:**

> Tim exhibits dangerous behaviors and signs of depression in the comics, mostly in the form of doing dangerous missions with little regard for his own safety. I wanted to show what it would be like if he took it a step further from reckless behaviors into straight up self harm because I feel like he could definitely reach the point where that would appeal to him. I also wanted to show that there is a way to pull yourself out of that hole and that he has a support system, made of even people he might not think particularly care for his well-being. It is an open ending because it felt cheap for me to write it like everything would instantly be better, and real as well a written recovery is a long journey.
> 
> (also this is just me but bc this was a rush 2am fic (that thankfully got a little edited) and i was super pleased i wrote some poetic lines, mostly that first paragraph about the sea, that i really liked, so if you like or don't like some of that stuff tell me bc it'll affect my writing style help me Learn and Grow)


End file.
